


Leviathan

by brocanteur



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5707474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/pseuds/brocanteur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from a fic prompt: "joaniarty + brontide (a low muffled sound like distant thunder)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leviathan

Two months after Sherlock’s death she rents a cottage off Nesika Beach, as far as she can think to get from New York, and hunkers down for the winter.

An odd place to vacation this time of year, a local tells her. She agrees, and that’s the most that she says without admitting this isn’t really a vacation. The town is small, almost nonexistent. The shore is bleak in the blue-gray gloaming, and when she sits by the window to stare out at the sea she tries to think of nothing.

She distracts herself with books and music. No phone. Except for a weekly trip to Gold Beach for groceries, and walks down along the cold, gloomy strand, she doesn’t leave the cottage.

A week into her stay, the rains come. Heavy, torrential. She watches the ocean swell; and in the dark and thundering emptiness of her room, she imagines that within it: a leviathan.

It’s in the night, in that perpetual downpour, in a powerless room lit by candlelight, that a knock interrupts the intermittent bellowing of thunder.

There _she_ is, drenched, drowning in the deluge. Joan almost doesn’t let her in. Almost stands on forbidding ground. Almost.

Moriarty’s smile trembles when the door closes behind her. She stares at Joan, her eyes narrowed in the dim light, her mouth quirked in that particular way of hers, as she strips out of her wet clothes, as Joan brings a blanket to wrap around her shoulders.

“How did you find me?”

“How do I always find you?” Moriarty asks.

Joan makes tea, ignoring Moriarty’s snipes about the weather, about indulging Romantic sojourns.

“You’ll catch your death out here, in the middle of nowhere.”

With a roll of her eyes, Joan pushes a mug of strong black tea at Moriarty, keeps one for herself, her fingers numb but quickly warming.

“Milk?”

Joan nods in the general direction of the kitchen.

“Get it yourself.”

“I’m starving.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some very nice hotel down the coast that will feed you.”

“But I was hoping that _you_ would feed me.”

Joan bites back a sigh in the moment before a thunderclap makes the hair on her arms stand on end.

Moriarty shivers beneath her blanket. Her hair drip drips onto the hardwood floor.

"I hate that,” she says. “Lightning storms.”

“No one asked you to come here.”

“As welcoming as ever, Joanie,” Moriarty says, rising from her seat, cup in hand as she goes to look out of the window. “Reminds me of Turner. Beautiful and terrifying. Those clouds—”

“Jamie.”

“I did try calling, you know, but it turns out you left your phone in New York. Borrowed your brother’s car and drove out here, paying cash along the way. It’s almost as if—”

“Almost as if I didn’t want to be found?”

“That’s the case, then? Were you hiding from me? Do you truly want me gone?”

“Yes.”

Moriarty tears her gaze from the scene beyond the window. From the slanting rain hitting the pane, hard and loud. Her face goes stony as she drops the blanket and retrieves her clothes. The candle’s flame flickers and sways, drawing shadows on her naked skin.

“You think, perhaps, that I don’t care. Or maybe it terrifies you that I might? In either case, you’re right not to trust me, I suppose.” She pulls on her blouse, which sticks damply, and stops. Takes a visible breath as she stares at the ground. “I tried to save him. I did try.”

“I know.”

“And I saved you.”

Joan swallows thickly.

“Yes, you did.”

“You’re angry that I lived while he died? What an unfair bargain, you must think. I can’t agree with you. I rather enjoy being alive. The world is less interesting without him… Grayer. But without you— Without you, Joan, I daresay it would be unbearable.”

It’s a lie, Joan tells herself, although what purpose it would serve, now, is beyond her. She feels a hot, sharp stab of guilt. The guilt of being alive. The guilt of wanting Jamie to stay.

“There’s chicken in the fridge,” she says, instead of, “Don’t go.”

Jamie eats. They drink wine.They fall asleep on the couch and wake up at twilight, legs tangled; Jamie’s breath falling soft and warm on Joan’s collarbone, hands at the small of her back.

“There’s more than this gray world, Joan,” Jamie whispers. “More than ugliness. We can go where the sun will warm you up.”

“I know, but I wanted to forget. I wanted…peace.”

“You can’t hide from grief, or love, or any of it. You can’t even buy your way out, unfortunately. You can only live.”

_It’s too early to talk like this. Too early to sort out truth and untruth_ , Joan thinks. _And it’s too late_. She swallows her words and kisses Jamie instead. It’s slow, and strangely tender, and the rain disappears. There is sunlight streaming from her fingertips.


End file.
